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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29929788">Broken Peace</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klauinax/pseuds/Klauinax'>Klauinax</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blaseball (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Baltimore Crabs (Blaseball Team)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:08:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,510</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29929788</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klauinax/pseuds/Klauinax</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kennedy Loser always knows the time<br/>Or: Aren't you tired of being nice? Don't you wanna just go apeshit?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Broken Peace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kennedy Loser had been coming to this bar for three months because, as far as he could tell, no one else liked it.</p>
<p>That was sad to him. It was a decent enough place, even if it hadn't been built very well. But it had all the things a bar should have, like a tv showing splorts, a bathroom to be sick in, and a plool table for him to be terrible at. Also no one seemed to know who he was here.</p>
<p>That was probably actually the most important thing. The tv was stuck on elspn 3 and they only ever showed the Underleagues there. It gave Kennedy time to sit back, nurse a stale beer, and be a fan of the game again.</p>
<p>He thinks of when he was young in blittle league, the simulated weather conditions. He's glad the training camp is on siesta as well, as much as he loved working with the kids. Sometimes it was nice to just pull away from every thing. Maybe someday he'd pull away from the Crabs. But, no. Baltimore was the only place he could be.</p>
<p>He maybe spent a little longer thinking about school related blessings for the lottery and nursing his bottle than he should have, because sooner than he expects the bottle is empty and he can hear the sounds of a crowd behind him. Not wanting to share his off time just yet, Kennedy pays for his drink with a tip, and stands to leave before stopping short.</p>
<p>Maybe it was his dad senses tingling. That little feeling when you know something was about to go bad. Maybe it was Mom talking to him. But in that moment of hesitation he heard a shout of protest just above the noise. Turning back, Kennedy starts doing his hair up as he moves towards the plool table.</p>
<p>The scene plays out with disgusting familiarity as he takes it in. A team's banner hangs from the ceiling. Fourteen men in varying degrees of drunkenness. A handful of women debatably old enough to be here. The clock on the fake wood wall notes it is ten minutes to midnight. That's about the perfect time for this.</p>
<p>Kennedy steps forwards, towards the biggest man at the plool table. He was guffawing as he holds the girl close to him, despite her struggling. Really, thought Kennedy, who the heck guffaws? It's such a 50s cartoon villain thing to do. The line of thought distracts Kennedy from the plan he didn't have, and he trips on the carpet before barely managing to catch himself and succeeding at drawing every bit of attention in the room to himself.</p>
<p>Straightening up with a smile, Kennedy pats himself down. "Heya Folks! Hope everyone's having a good time tonight!" The girl bring held takes the opportunity to start to say "N-" before the deep baritone of her holder takes over the sentence. "No shit, Sherlock. Why, what's it look like?"</p>
<p>"Some douchebag getting too handsy with a lady who has had enough." If every eye hadn't been on him before, it was now. The tension was thick enough that it could be cut. The girl is released and she stumbles away on heels she's not used to wearing before Kennedy's vision is engulfed by a man literally twice his size and built like he was dabbling in illegal false-blessings.</p>
<p>The Underleagues weren't as good at testing.</p>
<p>"Do you know who the fuck you're talking to, little man?" Kennedy's smile hasn't left his face. "Sure, sure. You're Slam Hardbeef, pinch hitter for the Franklin Forklifts. You guys have won an Underleague Championship." The recognition seems to make him swell with pride, and he reaches across the small gap between them to grab Kennedy's lapel.</p>
<p>"So you-" There was a comb tucked there. "know who-" It's teeth woven around the cloth of his shirt. "I aaaaaaAAAH!" Kennedy intercepts Slam's hand by taking hold of his thumb and then twisting it to the side. "You should really save that stuff for the diamond, Slam."</p>
<p>The reply was a curse-laden shout, then Slam's free hand comes around to smack into Kennedy's face. It was the obvious response. By this time the girls were starting to get wise and escape, meaning more upset mountains of muscle with too much alcohol in them to think clearly. Slam punches Kennedy again, this time hard enough that he can feel it, and he sighs before twisting his grip hard.</p>
<p>The snap and the scream make the others stop for a beat, and Kennedy catches a look at the clock. Four minutes until midnight. This was going to hurt. A pool cue to the back of the head sets the tone for the rest of the fight. At three minutes to midnight, Kennedy felt someone kick the side of his knee and he barely buckles in time to keep it from snapping. Someone else grabs his hair and smashes a knee into his nose. The sound of something inside your head breaking is a sound you can never quite forget.</p>
<p>On the ground, he couldn't keep track of time anymore. Kennedy tries to cover up his head to give them something to do, but the truth is he was already numb to the pain they were dishing out. It had happened too many times already. Someone has picked Slam off the ground and he's mounting Kennedy's chest, eightball in one massive fist. All he could think of was how uncomfortable it was to breathe with that much weight on your belly.</p>
<p>Stars meet his vision when the eightball smashed down into his forehead, and he can feel his skull bounce. Slam's hand raises again, and Kennedy can feel the seconds pass. In a dark, deep corner of himself, Kennedy wonders if Slam could do the job. If he could really finish it. At the very least, it would mean he wouldn't have to face the diamond again. He hates the thought as soon as it finishes. The weakness of it. The irresponsibility. The hate blossoms into pain as the eightball crashes back down, and Kennedy skull cracks under the weight of the blow.</p>
<p>There's a moment of stunned silence among the Underleague team as they look down at Kennedy's body, before Slam raises the eightball again and brings it back down with a vicious "Mother Fucker!" There's a dull cracking noise, and then a wet tearing sound, a startled shout, and then things slow down.</p>
<p>The Blaseball Gods prevent any kind major violence between players. It is known that games can become heated. The punishment for going against their wishes are extreme.</p>
<p>The Blaseball Gods do not protect the Underleague. Neither does the Mother Crab protect invaders into her domain.</p>
<p>A sharp claw of chitin takes off Slam Hardbeef's arm at the elbow. Trailing flaps of skin still cling to the red-streaked shell. There are more screams, and Kennedy Loser's shattered skull simply slides away from his body as the spined monstrosity that lies within him rises up to send a flailing Slam toppling to the ground.</p>
<p>On the shore, high tide laps at the beach, reflecting the full moon's light.</p>
<p>Kennedy Loser should have been in a safe place hours ago.</p>
<p>Kennedy Loser is exactly where he needs to be.</p>
<p>Hours pass, and Tillman Henderson disturbs Delcan by answering his phone and blearily mumbling "Whassup?" The voice on the other end is clearly one he knows, and he hushes the confused 'babe?' as he writes down an address. "Yeah, I'll be down there soon."</p>
<p>Tillman's jeep pulls up to the dark bar with a confused Declan in the passenger seat, and Henderson himself hops out with a bundle of clothes. "Oi! Loser! You better not be freaking out in there!" "Keep your voice down, I can hear you just fine. Can you put the clothes inside please?"</p>
<p>Tillman steps forwards and deposits the bundle. He was the only person Loser asked to do things like this, which was a mark of secret pride Tillman wore. "So uh. Anyone dead in there?" A hand reaches through the gap to collect the cloth. "Probably wish they were, but the only corpse in here is mine." "Shit dude don't call it that. It's creepy." "Language".</p>
<p>That admonishment makes Tillman shove his hands into his pockets and grump, but gives Kennedy enough time to get dressed. When he opens up the door to leave, Tillman can see blood and great sheets of chitin littering the floor. Kennedy smiles. "Thanks for coming out, Till. Hope I didn't interrupt you and your boyfriend." "You did, jerk! And now you owe me. Do you know how hard it was to get him off the xbox and come to bed? You owe me biiiig."</p>
<p>Kennedy chuckles, and shakes his head. He pauses for a moment to leave a card on the bartop. It was gonna be rice for a while until he finished paying off the damages, but he could handle a treat before that. "Okay, okay. Let's go get some milkshakes."</p>
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